


The Sports Section of the Sunday Paper

by scrollgirl



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-16
Updated: 2006-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/pseuds/scrollgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic moment snatched amidst busy lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sports Section of the Sunday Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://pocky-slash.livejournal.com/profile)[**pocky_slash**](http://pocky-slash.livejournal.com/).

Sunday mornings together are a rare occurrence, but they happen often enough that there's a routine. Sam comes over the night before to watch the game. Will gives him one beer too many. They stay in bed an extra hour, waking drowsily, arms and legs comfortably tangled.

Mmm. You're warm, Sam murmurs, slipping a hand beneath Will's t-shirt to rub his stomach.

Will's brain is ticking over from _Samsleepbednice_ to _Samcoffeeworkwakeup_, so he rolls over to press a kiss to slack lips. Have to get up if we're going sailing. You're meeting Josh for lunch.

Called, he won't make it till two.

Leo wants him to talk to Gillette again?

Mmm.

Will smiles with bone-deep contentment at the beautiful man lying peaceful and dreaming in his arms. I love you like this, he whispers, barely audible, into a cowlick of dark hair.

Blue eyes slit open and Sam grins, sudden and fierce and sun-bright. He pounces, kisses Will deep and long and lingering, his tongue doing all sorts of lewd things that jump-start Will's cognitive functions a million times more effectively than a triple shot of espresso.

Finally Sam pulls away, smug. And people think I'm the romantic.

Get back here, Will pants, grabbing handfuls of t-shirt.

Sam twists away, leaving the t-shirt behind in his grasp. Be right back, he teases, ducking into the bathroom.

Will scowls, thwarted. Shouts after him, Do your constituents know what a sadistic bastard you are? But Sam only laughs, shuts the bathroom door, so Will heaves himself off the bed and pads barefoot into the kitchen. He remembers again why CJ is the most magnificent woman in the world (saving his mother and sisters, of course) when the scent of freshly brewed coffee hits his nostrils.

Coffeemakers that think, he tests the line aloud as he pours two cups, adding cream and sugar to one. Though his dick tells him Sam doesn't really deserve this kind of service.

Will brings the coffees into the bedroom, frowns to see the bed still empty. But then he hears the _click_ of the deadbolt turning, the _snick_ of the front door opening. He leaves the cups on the night stand and takes his turn in the bathroom, and when he comes out, Sam is right there, tumbling Will onto the bed.

Wait, he protests. Coffee first. They time-out to sit up against the headboard to drink, both too thoroughly indoctrinated into the cult of caffeine to do much more than brush shoulders while savouring their first cup.

Sam finishes first, sets his cup down, then reaches over to slide Will's glasses onto his face. He flips the sports section, already neatly folded into quarters, onto Will's chest. Here, read me the highlights.

Will's hard. He's been hard since Sam licked his lips after finishing his coffee. Or maybe he's been hard since he heard the _clicksnick_ of the front door. Or maybe he's been hard since Sam came in his mouth last night, the game blaring in the background. Or maybe he's been hard since that day on the beach.

Will loves Sunday mornings, loves their routine. Read them yourself, he says, because that's what he always says, but he's already picking up the paper. Like he always does.

I'm busy, Sam says, and drags Will's boxers off completely. He takes Will into his mouth, and the anticipation of Sam has absolutely nothing on Sam himself, because Will is on the edge in seconds. God, _Sam_...

Sam pulls back, frowning. Will, you're supposed to be reading to me.

He doesn't hesitate, just whacks Sam upside the head with the newspaper. Sadistic son of a bitch, he groans, simultaneously amused and pissed off. Tormentor. I bet you flagrantly break campaign promises just to watch every Democrat in your district put on sackcloth and ashes.

Sam gapes at him for a moment, then snickers. You've been working with Toby too long. He relents at Will's pained expression, and presses a conciliatory kiss to his bellybutton. Okay, okay. But Josh is going to expect me to at least know who won the game, he points out before bending down again.

Yeah. Will scans the paper desultorily, his focus on the talented mouth making his body ache and want in the best possible ways, and not on the headlines in front of him. Then the score for last night's game catches his eye, and he sighs. Toby's gonna be hell to work with tomorrow.

Again Sam pulls off to smirk at him. Sucks to be you, man.

Will thumps his head against the headboard. Sadistic bastard, I swear to _God_.

Yeah, says Sam, his eyes soft. I'm evil that way.


End file.
